


Multiples

by deuxexmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is kidnapped, and a live video feed is sent to Sherlock. Every hour, he has to make a choice. What should we do to him next?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Multiples

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt on the kink-meme:  
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=43504012#t43504012

John wakes.

He can smell blood under his nose, and his lips are heavy. Sticky. He can’t breathe properly.

 _Duct tape_ , supplies his sensory memory. _Your nose has bled out onto it_.

He moves to sit up and hits his head. Too late he registers the background noise, the swaying and bone-shaking motions of his surroundings. He falls back, clutching at his forehead with hands that are bound to the front with something far more substantial than duct tape.

 _I’m in the boot of a moving car._

His feet are bound too, at the ankles. There isn’t much room, and John can feel other objects around him, can brush them with his shoulders and feet. Cold, cloth-covered metal. Containers, too, that clank sharply at every turn and motion of the car. Outside is too quiet. He’s not in the city any more.

John reaches up, braces himself for the pain, and rips the duct tape clean off his face. Gasping in fresh oxygen, he lies still and tries to push his frightened, adrenaline-soaked mind into reconstructing what had happened to him. He can smell the oil of the car, the metallic tang of his own blood, and some sort of bituminous odour that could be from the road. Or, although less likely, C4. Was this car used to transport plastic explosives at some point?

There’s a burst of static next to John’s ear and he startles. A walkie-talkie.

“Hey, pet,” comes a voice, horrifically recognisable even through the low quality rasp of the speaker. “Miss me?”

“Moriarty,” croaks John, eyes wide in the darkness.

Moriarty laughs softly, the sound crackling in John’s ears. “The game is on. Nice to see you’re awake and ready.”

John’s mind spins. He tenses, memory flashing back to the poolside explosion, to Moriarty draping him in explosives as a gun was pressed into John’s temple, to Afghanistan, mines, and the aftermath of burning body parts. His mouth is dry as sandpaper.

“Sherlock …”

“I haven’t got him,” Moriarty says, false reassurance ringing. “But I have his heart. And he’s going to be the one who decides how it breaks.”

The words are too cryptic and metaphorical for John to process right now. He twists and clutches at the walkie-talkie, spitting out words through a dry disobedient tongue. “What game? Where are we going?”

“No worries, pet. You’re not a player.”

“Then why am I here?”

“You’re just a game piece, as always. And in there, with you, is the board.”

As John’s weary eyes adjust to the darkness, he can make out more clearly the clutter that surrounds him in the boot. With a jolt of fear that reaches the very pit of his stomach, he recognises the cruel curves of knives and axes, wrapped safely as they are, and the smooth shine of a blowtorch, the dull glint of bludgeons.

Boxes of medieval-looking medical equipment.

Harnesses and ropes.

Chains.

A collection of bondage gear and sex toys that have him _cringing_.

There’s more, but he can’t make it out in the blackness. And there he is in the middle of it all, lying in a cradle of torture devices.

“We’re nearly there,” coos Moriarty, and clicks off. The static stops, and John is left in the lurching boot with nothing but the sound of tires, and the slide and clatter of metal on metal.

  


***

Sherlock is reduced to calling. He much prefers to text, but John hasn’t replied to any of his increasingly agitated messages, and that in itself is worrying and out of character for his friend. John usually responds well to what he sees as Sherlock’s weaknesses, eager to comfort and please. The silence is unnerving.

John’s pre-recorded voice answers the phone _again_ and Sherlock hangs up straight away, chucks his mobile to the sofa and collapses down after it himself, as if swooning. Perhaps he’s being melodramatic but surely it’s allowable, given the circumstances. He ruffles his hair, eyes pinching shut, furious with everything. How has he allowed this one seemingly average man to seep into his life so completely, that his very absence grated Sherlock’s mind raw? All Sherlock wants is proof that John is still thinking about him. Even a _‘sod off – JW’_ via text is preferable to this torturous silence.

John has warned Sherlock against being too possessive before, but _damnit_ , John is _his_ and he knows it. Is Sherlock being selfish again? He find he doesn’t care. John would understand, he always does.

Perhaps he’s at work right now, bored out of his skull, flirting half-heartedly with Dr Sawyer and refreshing his email over and over, hoping for an update. Sherlock makes up his mind. He gropes under the sofa, fingers searching, and drags out his laptop. It’s covered in a layer of dust and he blows it clean before turning it on. Honestly, he prefers John’s laptop, but he's comfortable and he can’t be bothered to move right now.

He navigates to his email folder and scrolls past all the pathetic pleas for help from his site, endless, boring, petty ‘mysteries’ that Sherlock can solve from the subject title, and goes to compose a new message ... but the latest email catches his eye. It’s from an anonymous address, one of those disposable emails that people use to sign up for offers and avoid the spam that comes afterward. He opens it.

  
 _Hey sexy!_

 _Ran into your pet today. He looked very lonely, so I took him home with me. Have you been neglecting him?_

 _I think he deserves some undivided attention._

 _Love from M_

 _P.S.  
http://bit593.anonym.to/ _

_  
_Sherlock sees a live video feed, the image dark and with only a little static. A high quality camera, then. The feed is on a black background, with an IM chat underneath. The cursor blinks, but Sherlock doesn’t write anything.

He waits.

The camera turns, and he sees a pale man in a dark suit perched on an old wooden dining table, legs swinging. Another man lies on the table in a foetal position, as if sleeping on his side, his head resting on the pale man’s lap. The camera adjusts, the light flickers through properly, and Sherlock’s worst suspicions are confirmed.

Moriarty curls a white hand through John’s soft hair, the other clutching at a knife that he keeps hovering over John’s vulnerable throat. His cruel smile is genuine, and he’s looking into the camera with something like glee.

John is awake, although bleary-eyed. Drugged. There’s bruising on the side of his head and a trace of blood under his nose. He’s not bound, but he isn’t moving an inch. It’s not just the threat of the knife, something is restricting his natural movement. Almost certainly some sort of muscle relaxant. Yet, to Sherlock’s inestimable pride, he still glares defiantly at the camera.

“Hello!” says Moriarty cheerfully. “Nice of you to join us, Sherlock.”

On his name, John jerks sharply, eyes widening. Moriarty’s fingers tighten in his hair, the knife presses against his throat, and he shushes in John’s ear as if to soothe him.

“Calm, pet, don’t thrash about like that.”

John whispers something that Sherlock can’t catch. He turns the volume up, but it's already on full. He reads John’s lips.

 _Sherlock._

“He _is_ sweet,” says Moriarty, petting John’s cheek. “I was thinking about getting one of my own, but then I thought, why not just take yours? So very _unprotected_. Why, anyone could snatch him off the street!”

Sherlock only realises now, just how tense he is. He’s gripping the laptop so hard he could break it. “John,” he says out loud, though no-one can hear him.

“We’re going to play a game, Sherlock,” says Moriarty, leaning back up but still maintaining that harsh grip in John’s hair. Sherlock wants to break every single one of those scrawny fingers. “And it’s a very different kind. We’ve done the intelligence tests, of course! You passed with flying colours, and I think you’re nearly, so very _nearly_ , at my level.”

“What do you want!?” Sherlock yells pointlessly. He shakes, forces himself to calm down. Whatever it is that Moriarty has planned, he needs a clear head. It’s his only weapon.

Moriarty is still blathering on. “Oh, and this should go without saying, but … don’t bother trying to trace this feed, or work out where I am from my surroundings, because I _guarantee_ you won’t get any useful information, and anyway, at the first sign of tampering I’ll blow something up. What’ll it be? A school? A hospital? The London Underground? Who knows? I’m so fucking _crazy_ these days!”

There’s that cruel laugh, and the knife threatens to dig into John’s throat.

The cursor blinks and Sherlock remembers. _What do you want?_ he asks, and sends it off via IM.

Moriarty looks off to the side as an off-camera associate reads out Sherlock’s question.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Moriarty says pityingly, turning back. “I just want to have some fun.”

His fingers scrape down the back of John’s scalp and Sherlock can see the involuntary shudder through John's body.

“This is an endurance test for John. An empathy test, perhaps, for you. And don’t panic yourself, there are no wrong answers!” Moriarty chuckles to himself. Never has such a little, insignificant sound made Sherlock more murderous. “I ask you a question, and you reply by IM. Now, are you listening closely?”

  
 _S: You have my full attention._

  
Moriarty grins. “First question. This drug is wearing off, but I still need to keep him _manageable_. How should I subdue him? Should I smash his ribs? Or should I break his hands? You have a minute to reply.”

  
***

  
John has kind hands, perfect for a doctor. They are healing hands, gentle but persistent. When Sherlock hurts himself, gets bruised or scratched open and susceptible to infection, he goes to John, lets the man wash and bind his wounds, his quiet voice chiding Sherlock as his hands put him back together.

John has deadly hands. He has the aim of an assassin. In his hands, guns are extensions of limbs, completely under his control. He throws knives with alarming accuracy. In hand-to-hand combat, he can hold his own admirably well.

John would be _devastated_ if he had to live without full use of his hands.

But multiple rib fractures would do more than subdue John. In the process, his lungs could be damaged and without pain management, any more than three broken ribs would lead to nothing more than a slow, incredibly painful death.

Thirty seconds. Sherlock watches the clock furiously. What sort of game _is_ this? It’s not testing anything. It is torture, plain and simple, wrapped up in such a way that Sherlock has to get involved in the suffering of his only friend. To feel responsible for whatever happens next.

 _Hands._ he types out, slowly, as if hate could be transferred via wireless.

He will watch this. Everything Moriarty sees, Sherlock has to see. Everything Moriarty does to John, Sherlock will do in revenge. He’ll rip the man to pieces.

“Interesting,” murmurs Moriarty softly, lips curling upwards. He pushes John back onto the table and slides off, walking towards to camera. “I’ll hold this, my dear. Hold him down. Use the claw hammer, I want every bone broken.”

On the table, John shuffles. The drug is indeed wearing off, but he’s still as weak as a kitten. There are two others, from what Sherlock can make out. They’re tall and dressed in black combats and balaclavas. Their bearing is military. Mercenaries, then, or thrown out of the army in disgrace. They’re too young to have been retired, and there’s no sign of injury that would have had them sent home early.

One pins John down, the other stretches out one of John’s arms, holding a dark metal hammer that is solid at one end and clawed at the other. The design used to hammer nails into fences, or pull them out. It’s larger, and looks heavier, than is standard.

Moriarty’s chuckles are the background noise to John’s struggles and shouts. The camera wobbles as Moriarty moves closer. He zooms in on John’s face, which fills the screen, panicked and frightened and _still fighting_.

“They’re doing his right hand first,” says Moriarty by way of commentary, zooming out to get a better picture. One of the mercenaries, the one pinning John down with sick grin on his face, _gurgles_ with laughter.

  
 _S: I will find you and kill each and every one of you in ways so horrific that_

  
Sherlock leans on the backspace. That won’t do.

John’s right hand is splayed palm down on the table, trying to clench back into a fist, but the hammer comes down _hard_ over the back of his knuckles and that crunching, of bones and tendons, in unmistakeable. John yells in pain, short lasting, and his face is blank, eyes clear and wide. Detached. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he looks in danger of hyperventilating.

 _Crunch._

 _Crack._

“Each and every finger,” says Moriarty in a stage whisper, over the splinter of bone and John’s barely repressed cries of pain.

On to the next hand, and the man holding John down releases him slightly to move position, and John takes advantage, rolling to the side and fiercely elbowing the man in the neck.

“Oh!” screams Moriarty in delight. “He’s so fucking _vicious_! Weren’t you housetrained, pet?”

John is wrestled back down with disheartening ease, shouting obscenities at Moriarty.

“Can we gag him or something? Jesus,” snarled the man who was struck, his neck bruising already.

“Later,” says Moriarty. “Next hand!”

“No,” hisses John, louder than before. “No, no … get the hell off of me!”

Moriarty is giggling. “He’s _adorable_. I’m growing quite attached. Are you watching closely, Sherlock?”

Sherlock has a notepad open. He’s trying to type down details of the room as he sees them, things he notices, anything, really, that will help deduce the location. As Moriarty promised, there’s nothing much to go on. Not yet, anyway. Everyone makes mistakes.

The hammer thuds against John’s hand, smashes into soft flesh and muscle, splinters bones (the irregular carpel bones of the wrist, the metacarpals, the delicate phalanges of his fingers) and John’s given up on attempting stoical silence. He grunts with pain on every blow.

Sherlock fingers a bandage wrapped carefully and professionally around his upper arm, covering a cut from a machete-wielding thug Sherlock had been chasing. He remembers John’s fussing, clever hands cleaning and taking the pain away, readying the wound to be healed.

The man breaking John’s hand finishes, and drops the blood-spattered hammer to the floor.

“He’s a proper cripple now,” teases Moriarty, moving in closer, the camera shaking as he laughs. John stares at the ceiling, utterly broken.

The feed switches off.

  
***

  
Sherlock panics as the camera cuts out, refreshing the page, but the feed doesn’t return. He swears under his breath and refrains from mashing the keyboard. A message pops up on the IM chat.

  
 _M: Every hour. Don’t go anywhere, sweetie!_

  
Sherlock is practically spitting in fury.

  
 _S: Why are you doing this?_

  
The cursor blinks unhelpfully. There's no reply.

Sherlock flings the laptop off of his belly onto the cushions and leaps to his feet, feverishly pacing out his thoughts. Moriarty has _John_. And all Sherlock can do is wait for the torture to start up again. Every hour? How is John supposed to survive that? And the worst part is that Sherlock is incapable of helping him.

No, he _can_ act. He must. But how? This isn’t a police matter. Moriarty almost certainly has a mole in Lestrade’s department, must have to evade capture for so long, and Lestrade is the only one Sherlock would trust with a matter as delicate as this. Besides, if Moriarty found out that Sherlock was trying to track him down, he’d blow something up. Probably kill John too.

Sherlock can’t risk that.

It rankles at his pride, his independence, but there’s really only one man Sherlock can turn to.

He picks up his discarded mobile and fires off a quick text.

 _Assistance required.  
SH_

The reply comes quickly.

 _What have you done this time?  
I’m very busy.  
MH_

 _He’s got John.  
SH_

Mycroft, damn him, doesn’t respond. Sherlock’s fingers clench around the phone and he waits, patience slowly evaporating. He resends the text. Why won’t the bastard _reply_?

This really isn’t the time for Mycroft’s ridiculous power games.

When phone finally rings, Sherlock answers it straight away. “What is your _problem_? Too busy stuffing your face with cake?”

Mycroft is the epitome of calm. Sherlock can almost visualise him, hands neatly folded on his lap, relaxing back on his chair, savouring the sounds of Sherlock’s need on speakerphone. “I’m _very_ busy, Sherlock.”

“Moriarty has John,” Sherlock says, enunciating each word carefully.

“John is your responsibility. You told me specifically not to interfere. Now, I need to-“

“Mycroft!” snarls Sherlock. “I’m asking for your help. John could die.”

There’s a thoughtful pause. The creaking of a chair. Then finally, “… Be here in 10 minutes. I’ll send a car.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Sherlock says.

“You owe me, little brother.”

They hang up at the same time. Sherlock stalks back over to his laptop. There’s a new email, from another one of those anonymous addresses.

  
 _Oh, Sherlock,_

 _I told you not to contact anyone._

 _Perhaps this will be easier if you aren’t surrounded by creature comforts._

 _51.540187,-0.124503_

 _Back alley, red door. Key is under the mat._

 _Alone._

 _Love from M x_

  
Sherlock’s brow creases. He recognises the digits, obviously latitude and longitude points. Working quickly, he pulls up a map service and plots it in. The time is ticking down until the next feed, and Sherlock counts down each minute with increasing desperation. Address memorised, he leaps to his feet and rushes downstairs. It’s crisp and cold in the afternoon grey, and he’s shivering in the time it takes to hail a taxi.

“Where to?” asks the cabbie, pulling off.

“York Way, Camden,” Sherlock says, pulling on his gloves. “Quickly.”

As the cab peels off from the curb, Sherlock can see a familiar black sedan pull up alongside 221B. Mycroft should be able to figure out what has happened from the flat, Sherlock’s not worried about that. He wonders what Moriarty has waiting for him in Camden. It’s difficult to plan ahead in a game where you can’t even see the board, or your opponent’s moves.

  
***

  
The red door is down a back alley. The paint is peeling, and the place looks abandoned, but there’s a new lock installed in the deceptively old looking door, and Sherlock retrieves the key from under a rotten welcome mat to open it.

Upstairs in a dusty, poorly lit room, is a desk, a lone chair, and a computer on screensaver. There’s a post-it note stuck to the top of the monitor with another anonymous URL. Sherlock hesitantly sits down and shakes the mouse, waking up the screen. He opens the only icon, the internet browser, and navigates to the address. The computer is fast and responsive, gently whirring in the background.

It’s the same as last time, a black screen, an IM box, and a feed that is currently static. Sherlock counts down the time in his head, but slightly ahead of cue, the static lurches and fades out. John is lying on the table, curled up on his side, mangled hands under his chin. He must be in significant pain, but he looks blank, numb. Moriarty is perched next to him on the table, smirking at the camera. He nudges John.

“Look at the camera, pet. He’s here.”

John’s blue-grey eyes dart to the camera and back to the floor. He seems far more clear-headed this time, quick to respond.

“He’s calmed down a bit, you see. Not so feisty.” Moriarty turns back to John, who is resolutely not looking at _anything_. “Sit up, pet, and show Sherlock your hands.”

“ _John,_ ” whispers Sherlock, as the man shuffles carefully upright, using his elbows to push himself into a seated position, swinging his legs to dangle over the edge. His misshapen hands rest on his lap, still disturbing to look at, but at least the bleeding has stopped. They’re like dead puppets. John can’t even twitch his fingers.

Moriarty fakes a yawn and stretches his arms out, casually slipping one over John’s shoulder. “Ready for the next question, Sherlock?” he asks, then looks off camera, nodding at someone off screen.

A new IM pops up.

  
 _M: Would you rather have him blind, deaf or dumb?_

 _You have one minute, or it’s all three._

  
Sherlock clenches his fists in frustrated anger, unable to take his eyes off of poor unknowing John, who’s sitting extremely still and trying not to shove off Moriarty’s unwanted embrace. He’s admirably calm, given the circumstances, but the unnatural tightness at the edges of his mouth and his constricted pupils give his suffering away.

Blind, deaf or dumb.

John needs to see. He reads, he writes his blog, he enjoys watching crap telly. He appreciates beauty where Sherlock just can’t.

Once, after a case, Sherlock had found John leaning at the edge of a balcony, just watching the world go by. The sun had set, leaving the sky an inky blue. He’d watched for what seemed to be hours as the lights of the city multiplied in the darkness, until it was like a second daytime. Sherlock couldn’t see what was so attractive about it, but John had been _entranced_.

To blind him would be far too cruel.

John is a good listener. Sherlock has never met someone so _attentive_ to him before. It was flattering, to be listened to so intently. He didn’t want John to be deaf. He needed to be able to talk to John, to explain his ideas to someone who would appreciate them.

That left the last option. Dumb. Mute. John wouldn’t be able to talk. What would Moriarty do? Surgically remove John’s vocal cords? Or, more simply, cut out his tongue?

John was wise, he was Sherlock’s gently murmuring moral compass. He was quick to jump in and verbally defend Sherlock (even though Sherlock didn’t need it). He'd potter around 221B and say things like “Sherlock, we’ve run out of milk again,” and “I’ve done a bit of tidy up around the house, but I haven’t touched your experiments,” and, when Sherlock was being upset by his brother's interference, “You’re worth a hundred Mycrofts, don’t let him bother you.”

Ten seconds.

His hands quavered as he typed.

  
 _S: Dumb._

  
“I’m sorry John,” he whispered out loud, as Moriarty’s grin widened.

"Time’s up!" Moriarty jeers, hopping down from the table and running off camera. Whoever is filming zooms in on John’s face, who is glowering at Moriarty intently, an expression of deepest loathing etched into his worry lines.

Sherlock can do nothing but watch as John’s hate morphs into fear, and it's made worse by the fact that his face is so _expressive_. Sherlock sees every slight tic. John's eyes widen, his mouth gapes slightly and his whole body tenses as Moriarty saunters back over, metal glinting in his hand. But it’s too blurry for Sherlock to see until the camera refocuses and -

In one hand is a scalpel, viciously sharp and glinting under the light as Moriarty moves. In the other is a rather old looking Roser Koenig 19cm mouth gag, used to hold open a patient's jaw during dental surgery. The metal shape is based on scissors, and the device is designed to ratchet open a click at a time with the squeeze of the handles.

"Strap him down," Moriarty barks off-screen, then his head twists down and around to leer at John, who is clamping his teeth determinedly together, jawline tense.

"Do you know what this is, pet?" Moriarty asks, as a struggling John is tied flat on his back to the table, ropes tightened over his chest and legs, arms pinned to his side. Moriarty crushes the handles and the teeth spring apart, and he peers at it, picking a bit of reddened scrap from the edges.

John's wide-eyed look says he does, tight lips curling over his teeth in a twisted grimace.

"No? What sort of doctor are you, anyway?" Moriarty's beetle black eyes flick up from the gag to fix on John's face, and he moves closer, stalking around the table as John wrestles uselessly with his bonds. He trails the flat of the scalpel over John's midsection as he goes, mouth curling upward in glee as John tenses under his fingers.

He reaches John's head and cups the man's face. "Open your mouth."

John tries to twist away, but Moriarty grips his hair and yanks his head back, leaning down. "Open. Your. Mouth," he repeats softly, as John hisses in pain. Moriarty's expression sours. He pinches John's nose, but John just sucks in quick breaths through his teeth, glowering resentfully, his eyes never leaving Moriarty's.

Now bored, and obviously wanting to get on with the torture, Moriarty looks up at his waiting assistant, the one who wielded the hammer. "Do something," he whines.

The man shrugs uselessly, and Moriarty howls in rage. "For fucks sake, you brain donor! If I tell you to do something, you snap to attention and do it straight away!"

The man unconsciously straightens his back. "Sir, sorry sir. I-I just have no suggestions."

"You don't have to take orders from him," John says quickly, and Moriarty whips around to force the gag down his throat, but John's already fixed his jaw shut.

"Yes he does," says Moriarty, voice ugly, and he stabs John in the left shoulder with the scalpel.

John cries out, defenceless against the sudden pain, and Moriarty acts quickly with the reflexes of a predator. He jams the gag between John's teeth and squeezes the handles, until the sides of John's mouth are stretched as far as they'll go before the delicate skin at the edges threatens to split. Moriarty laughs as John makes odd, guttural, choking sounds, head flailing from side to side.

Miles away, Sherlock stands up so quickly that his chair falls backwards with a clatter. "No!" he yells, mashing on the keyboard.

  
 _S: What will it take to make you stop?_

 _  
_Moriarty looks up at the notification bell, but just gives the camera a nasty smirk and yanks the scalpel out, running the blunt end down his tongue. "Mm, freshly cut doctor. You," he says to his assistant. "Hold his head."

The man walks over and grips either side of John's head, fingers digging into his hollowed cheeks. John wheezes and jerks against his bonds, but he can't stop this, and Moriarty reaches in with his free hand and grips John's tongue. He yanks it, harsh, fingernails digging in.

Sherlock actually cries out in empathetic pain as Moriarty scrapes the scalpel down John's tongue, from back to tip, a guideline. Blood blooms from the pink surface, spilling into John's mouth and running down his chin. There are many blood vessels just under the surface of the tongue for the absorption of small food molecules, and uniquely sensitive pressure and pain receptors. Moriarty slices and saws incompetently through all of them as John wails in agony, face wet with tears.

When he's done, John's tongue is sliced in two as if he had an extreme forked tongue reaching to the very back of his throat. Moriarty yanks out the mouth gag and walks off camera with that loose-lipped smile stretched smugly over his face. John's jaw sags as he coughs and splutters around all the blood. When he's untied, he curls up on his side, half mouthing the surface of the table as he flexes his overstretched jaw.

The presence of blood usually doesn't move Sherlock, or bother him at all, but this makes him physically _ache_ for John. He shouts at the screen in fury as the feed cuts out, and he's never emotionally demonstrative, so why does he want to smash this tiny room to pieces?

A shrill ringtone pierces his eardrums. It's not Sherlock's.

He searches the room quickly, and finds it under a false floorboard. It's a familiar design, the eponymous pink iphone.

He answers, and slowly raises the phone to his ear.

A horrific gagging noise comes through. It's disturbingly familiar.

"John?" he asks softly. The voice seems to break, but none of the panicked noises are intelligible. "John, I promise," he says urgently, "If it's the last thing I do, I will find you."

There is a cluttering noise, and a yelp of pain. Then Moriarty's sly chuckle.

"Hey sexy."

"I'll kill you," snarls Sherlock. "You'd do best to leave him, and start running right now, because when I find you I will _hurt_ you. Everything you do to him, I'll do to you, only I'll make it ten times more vicious, and humiliating, and painful."

"Sherlock, sweetie. That almost sounds like a _challenge_."

"Stop this madness. Let John go, it's me you're after."

"Our game ends when you let the doctor die, Sherlock. He can stay alive for as long as you'd like."

"While you _torment_ him?"

Moriarty chuckles. "I get brutal when I'm bored. I don't have an excuse, really, it's just one of my many quirky personality traits." He exhaled loudly down the phone, and his voice was breathy. Horny. He was getting off on this. "You'd _love_ me if you got to know me, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. "Let him go."

"I thought you were smart? Obviously not smart enough to know when an argument is pointless." Moriarty sighed. "Bored!"

He hung up.

Sherlock froze in fury, thumbing the redial option with shaking fingers, but the number was apparently non-existent.

Swearing at nothing, Sherlock shoves the iPhone into his inside pocket and paces to the window, organising his thoughts.

It's useless to look for clues in this building. It was probably deliberately chosen to have been no help to Sherlock at all, but he can't control what he observes ( _small three story house once was well loved lived in by a family with at least one small child left to decay for at least five years now unrented bad area graffiti outside broken into several times and there's nothing of value left new locks wiring redone recently most likely a month ago so he's been planning this for a month and he probably owns this building although most likely through a pseudonym_ ) and his mind is racing.

He turns on his heel and stalks over to the computer, regarding it carefully. It's probably rigged up with all sort of unfortunate things, but Sherlock is no computer expert and IT is apparently Moriarty's specialty. Undetectable keyloggers, automatic screencaptures, trojans that could sneak into his email server ...

He leaves it and uses the internet on his Blackberry instead, linking up to the internet from a free wifi cloud.

There's an email from Mycroft.

  
 _Found the time to solve your troubles. Attached is the footage from CCTV cameras in the area where John was picked up._

 _So far, there is no evidence of where they are taking him, but I have people combing the system for footage._

 _Will update when I can, although more information from you would be helpful._

 __  
  
  
_#file/drop/250511gh643.avi_   
  


  
Sherlock debates over whether to email back. Moriarty seemed to know when he had contacted his brother the first time, although that could have been an educated guess. But it would be stupid to threaten Moriarty at this point in time by bringing in the heavy, unsubtle investigative fist of the government. On his own, Sherlock can figure things out without drawing unwanted attention.

He leaves it.

On the desktop computer, an IM pops up.

  
 _M: Run._

  
"What?" Sherlock protests loudly, and then he hears it. A hissing, sparking noise from the computer case, and when Sherlock examines it more closely he can see a near invisible spiral of smoke.

It's a bomb without a timer.

Sherlock leaps to his feet and sprints out of the room, breath hitching, feet drumming down the crooked narrow steps and he shoulders open the front door to stumble, squinting, into the blinding grey daylight outside. His head whirls as he re-examines his surroundings.

The last time Moriarty blew up a building, there was enough force to take out several floors, as well as damage the next apartment over.

He knows he should be getting out as quickly as possible, but a small voice, John's voice, is incessant in the back of his head.

 _Save them._

"John," murmurs Sherlock. He runs to the nearest apartment and leans on the doorbell until someone answers, gruff, irritable, voice distorted by the bad speaker quality.

"What is it?"

Sherlock leans close. "You need to evacuate the building," he orders. "Activate the fire-alarm, bang on doors. There's a _bomb_."

"A what!?" exclaims the voice. "Uh, okay, I just-"

The piercing ringtone of the pink phone sounds through the air, and Sherlock answers.

"I _do_ hope you're out of there, Sherlock," Moriarty drawls, and there is an ear-cracking _explosion_.

  
***

  
"Make sure he doesn't go anywhere," Moriarty orders, fastidiously cleaning his red hands on Moran's sanitizer soaked handkerchief. His large black eyes are fixed unwaveringly on Armitage, who shivers and stands to attention.

"Yessir."

"It shouldn't be too difficult. He _is_ pretty crippled right now."

"I'll be fine, sir."

Moriarty's mouth widens and he slaps a small hand on Armitage's shoulder. "Of _course_ you will. I don't hire incompetents, do I? Moran?"

Moran nods absently, a few feet away. He's been brushing the tips his fingers through John's hair with a thoughtful expression on his face for a while now, although Armitage can't imagine what he means by it. Moran had been with Moriarty the last time they snatched up John, so perhaps he was reliving some memories.

Moriarty abruptly spins on his heel and trots to the exit, lazily beckoning Moran with the twitch of his fingers. Moran jerks to attention and follows. He shoots Armitage an unreadable look before slamming the door behind him, and Armitage is left alone with the snuffling, shuddering doctor.

He walks closer, carefully, like he'd approach a snake. The doctor is surprisingly vicious, as Moran's nearly broken neck proves.

John's hair is mussed where Moran has been playing with it. He's lying curled up on his side, utterly boneless, blood drenching the lower half of his face, neck and the upper part of his knitted jumper a vivid red, and it's pooled a bit on the table under his mouth. His mangled hands (Armitage feels a stab of guilt) are resting in front of him, pressed close to his chest as through for protection.

Bright blue eyes flick up to look at him, and there's no real hate there, nor fear. Just a deep, heartfelt _sadness_ , and it's not the self-pitying kind.

It's directed at Armitage.

 _You don't have to take orders from him._

Armitage tenses. "You don't understand. He saved me. I owe him my life, John."

John coughs, haggard, and there's a splutter of blood. He rocks his head to the side.

 _No._

His blue eyes are wise and kind. He looks at Armitage like he knows him, like he _understands_.

Perhaps he does.

Armitage remembers his days in the army, the only time when his life had any real meaning. He's not a very smart guy, never had been, and he accepts that. But what he was good at was pushing his naturally athletic body to the limit, obeying orders without question, training to be the perfect soldier. Before the accident that had him sent to jail for life, before Moriarty scooped him up, he'd had a _purpose_ there.

 _You don't have to take orders from him._

"You don't get it," he said bitterly. "It's a one-time deal. There's only one answer. It was between him and jail, and be honest, what would you have chosen? Really?"

John meets his eyes, unblinking.

He turns and walks to stand by the exit, so he doesn't have to look at that pitying stare.

  
***

  
Sherlock runs at full pelt, panting, with blood from a blow to the head causing his hair to stick down the side of his face. He can hear the distant wail of sirens as the fire brigade come to rescue whoever was lucky enough to survive Moriarty's bomb. The abandoned building that Sherlock had been in minutes earlier has been reduced to rubble. The nearby apartments had their walls thrust inwards by the force of the blast, shattering brick and window that had rained down and smashed into the pavement underneath.

He clutches the pink iPhone in his fist, which has a new text reading across the screen. An address.

The hotel should be a good fifteen minutes away on foot, but Sherlock makes it in half that time, sprinting through private property and taking short-cuts over rooftops. He runs into the foyer, and to the front desk where a bored receptionist gapes at his ruffled appearance, the gum nearly dropping out of her mouth.

"Room," barks Sherlock. "Reserved for Sherlock Holmes."

So said the text.

She wordlessly hands over the keys, and he takes off again.

First floor, room 12.

Sherlock bursts in, poised to fight, but the room appears empty. He gives to it a once over to determine that it is safe, then locks the door behind him and dashes to a familiar looking computer. As before, there's a url taped to the top of the monitor, and Sherlock navigates to it quickly.

Black background, static feed, and an IM chat window.

Sherlock counts down the time in his head.

  
***

  
Moriarty perches at the end of the table next to John's head, sucking inexpertly at one of Moran's cigarettes. His other hand rests on John's cheek, just pressing there, keeping his head to the table. Moran stands close in case John lashes out. He's carrying the blowtorch, flicking it on and off, clearly impatient. Moriarty notices.

"Put that down, darling, you're scaring him," he purrs, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.

"Fuck, let him be scared," Moran rasps, clearly still pissed off about John crushing his windpipe.

Armitage stands out of the way, prepping the camera. He's waiting for his order. Moriarty is going to give the signal for when to start, and he loves keeping Sherlock in suspense.

"Oh my god, I bet he's sitting there right now, in that grotty little hotel, just _waiting_ for me," Moriarty gasps with laughter. He twists his head down to look at John, thumb stroking a soft eyebrow. "And you."

John shuts his eyes.

"You know, pet, I'm beginning to see your appeal. You're very …" Moriarty pauses, searching for the word, fingers tapping his lips.

"Stoic," supplies Moran, clunking the blowtorch down on the table behind John, who doesn't even flinch. "To the point of complete apathy."

"I wouldn't say he was apathetic," said Moriarty, teasingly. "He just knows how to wind you up."

And he flicks the cigarette ash against John's eyelashes, and takes another thoughtful suck.

"Is the camera ready?" Moran asks, and Armitage nods silently. "Can we just do this now?"

"Thinking," Moriarty says dismissively. "About what to ask."

Moran sniggers. "Blowtorch to the face or blowtorch to the nuts."

"You and that fucking blowtorch."

Moran steps around, moving out of shot of the camera. They're getting ready now, and Armitage tries to get the focus to work. "Got a better idea?"

Moriarty sneers around the cigarette. "Arse or mouth," he drawls, and stubs the cigarette out in John's ear.

John reacts unexpectedly, thrashing upwards and grabbing Moriarty around the neck with his forearms, spitting blood over his crisp white shirt. Moriarty shrieks and the two tumble off the table onto the concrete floor. Moran is on them in seconds, dragging John off and throwing him down, kicking him over and over in the stomach, only stopping when Armitage physically blocks him.

"Jesus, Moran! Stop! You'll kill him!"

"I thought that was the fucking point!" roars Moran.

Moriarty sits up, picking at his stained clothing with a horrified expression on his pinched face. "Oh, that's disgusting. That's actually really disgusting."

He holds up his hands and Moran grabs them, drags him to his feet, checking him over. "Are you okay?"

"Shut up, you big baby," Moriarty says derisively. He shoots a look at Armitage, who is carefully rolling John onto his back. "Is he alive?"

John is looking straight at Armitage, and the intensity of that blue gaze makes him stutter. "Y-yes."

"Stick him back on the table then. And, Moran, would you be a dear and fetch me a new shirt from upstairs? I think it's time for our show."

 

***

  
The unanticipated wait has Sherlock drumming his fingers on the desktop in frustration.

When the static bursts, distorts and clears, he's presented with the familiar tableau of John crumpled on the table, Moriarty at his side. His mind plays a macabre game of spot-the-difference ( _John's blood-drenched face and neck, the reddened table, Moriarty's change of clothes_ ) and he leans forward to get a closer look.

John has been beaten, that much is obvious from the way his stomach cringes inward, with bits of mud from dirty shoes staining his jumper. His body thrums, as if he's been running, which is impossible. Sherlock suspects he's been injected with a stimulant to stop him passing out, and the subtle shuddering along the line of John's body supports this.

Moriarty smiles his sickly smile.

"So glad to see you escaped that bomb, Sherlock. I wouldn't know what to do with your pet, otherwise." He pauses, eyes roving over John, and that smile grows somehow wider. Sherlock can see the white of his sharp little teeth. "Actually, that's a lie, there's plenty of things I'd do, but torture is so much more fun with an _audience_ , don't you think?"

He tugs on John's cheek, like you would a child, a movement made casually violent by circumstance as it reopens the clotting wounds scraped through John's mouth. The adrenaline would have made him hyperaware to sensation, and Moriarty sniggers as John reflexively twitches in pain, tugging again. Blood smears on this tips of his white fingers, and he wipes them off on a clean part of John's jumper, nose wrinkling in disgust.

The computer bleeps as an IM pops up.

  
 _M: Remove a limb, or remove an organ?_

 _No anaesthetic, naturally._

  
And Sherlock can't do this. He honestly wishes he'd never met John, if it meant sparing him this suffering.

"30 seconds," chirps Moriarty. "Or I'll let my assistant have some fun with his blowtorch. He's very creative."

John's eyes are shut, and Sherlock's hands shake on the keyboard as he types the only answer that won't result in death (because he knows he can find John. He _can_.)

  
 _S: Limb._

  
"Oh, that's excellent," Moriarty says cheerfully, hopping down from the table and pulling out his iPhone. "I have an app for this."

John breathes slowly in the background, out of focus as Moriarty fiddles with the phone.

"Aha!" he squeals delightedly. "Left arm, pet. That's not so bad! Isn't that your fucked-up side anyway? I haven't seen the scar."

Even out of focus, Sherlock can see John lurch to attention, eyes snapping open, body tensing as he realises what is going to happen. Moriarty flashes the camera a glimpse of his phone, the screen showing a randomiser application with _Left Arm_ being highlighted.

"See?" he says, pocketing the iPhone. "I wasn't even making it up." He walks closer, reaching out his arms. "I'll do the camera, you go and help hold John down. I think he's really going to scream for this one."

There is shuffling, and for a moment all Sherlock can see is concrete ( _They're in some sort of basement no natural light confirms this design is compliant with storage rooms for factories_ ) and then Moriarty is holding the camera. One of the men moves the blowtorch from the table, and rolls a kicking, twisting John onto his back.

"So pointless," says Moriarty, tutting. "You're only hurting yourself, pet."

The man wraps an arm around John's knees, holding him in place, and pressing a hand into John's tender stomach until his struggles cease with a violent coughing fit. "Should we tie him down, or do you want me to hold him here?"

"I'm not really a fan of ropes," Moriarty says, voice amused. "I prefer, ah, bodily restraint. Much more fun to watch."

The other man comes back onscreen with a jagged-edged full-tang blade, about a foot long, dark military metal that doesn't glint or cast reflections. He presses the flat of the blade to John's cheek, slides it to his chin, tilting his head this way and that. John's eyes don't leave the man's face, and they're burning with genuine loathing.

"Now, that's just asking for it, pet," laughs Moriarty. "Look at that face!"

The man guides the dark blade down John's reddened throat, smearing the blood like a butter knife until he reaches John's collar. His eyes rise to meet Moriarty's behind the camera, and there's something wordless being exchanged there.

( _All of a sudden, Sherlock sees white. He has a flashback of the pool, and he's standing there on cold tiles, gun clasped, dropping his aim to the bomb, in move that can kill all of them, if taken. John is staring at him, bright-eyed and trusting. Their gazes meet, and John nods._ )

The man begins cutting John's clothes off with vicious jerks of the knife blade down the centre of his jumper, a bit too violent in some places, where he slices skin. He revels in the violence, ruthlessly delighting in every stifled sound from John's tortured mouth. He tears off the tatters of the jumper

Now John's chest is exposed to the cold air.

The sight is odd to Sherlock.

He realises that, in all the time they've lived together, he's never seen John anything less than modestly covered. This expanse of soft untanned flesh is foreign, and seems startlingly vulnerable in the too open space of the basement.

The bruises from his beating are already blossoming, a sickly grey-purple scattering his stomach and abdomen. His ribs expand and contract with every carefully controlled breath. Narrow red slices start to clot in the open air. The man smiles gruesomely; he slips the flat of the blade down John's sternum and stomach to wipe off the blood on his skin.

John lies deathly still, staring at the ceiling.

The man moves around to John's left side and grips the broken wrist _hard_. John suppresses a cry, pulling instinctively against the powerful hands holding him down.

"Where should I cut him?" asks the man, tracing the dark blade over John's wrist as John clenches his teeth and thrashes, his efforts futile.

Moriarty makes a thoughtful humming noise.

He walks closer and his pale fingers reach out in front of the camera, tracing a line around the middle of John's forearm. The mangled hand flops uselessly in the corner of the screen. "Well, we can cut it there," Moriarty says, moving back. "And if that's not enough we can always take off a bit more. That's what my hairdresser says anyway."

Sherlock swears at the screen.

The man traces a guideline around John's forearm, blood beading up as he dips the blade shallowly into soft flesh. John had gone very still, and very quiet, visibly steeling himself for whatever was going to happen.

Sherlock can't watch this. He stands abruptly, and goes to stand by the window, watching the street outside. It is likely, he deliberates, as John starts to scream behind him, that Moriarty has someone in the hotel watching when he comes and goes. But there are no cameras in his room, and from what he can see there is no-one across the road who can see in. Perhaps one of the staff is in his pocket, or maybe he owns the hotel through a fake name, Sherlock doesn't know.

John's screams are growing desperate.

Sherlock turns back, he can't _not_ look, and John is thrashing so hard that he's snapped his own half-sawn bone, leaving white splinters. There's blood everywhere, the man with the knife is wet with it, and the man holding down John's increasingly fierce movements has splatters on his hands. John is left with his arm up to just under the stump of his elbow, which he can't flex, as the tendons have been messily sawn to pieces.

Moriarty is _laughing_.

He zooms in on John's bloody, pained, crumpled face, twisting as he gasps for air, eyes screwed shut.

"Not good enough, pet!" Moriarty screams. "What happened to all that stoical soldier shit? Open your eyes."

John's eyes flicker open. His sandy lashes are wet with tears. They clump together like moth-wings, and his pupils are obscenely dilated.

He looks at the red mess that is left of his forearm and turns away, inhaling, exhaling in a horrified sob, shaking furiously. His arm is dropped back into the table and he lets out a short sharp cry.

Things are quieter now. Moriarty sneaks closer.

"Look, pet," he says softly, and he's holding ...

Sherlock chokes.

He's holding John's severed broken hand.

Sherlock can't really see any details. Just blood and bone and the crushed remains of kind fingers.

John refuses to look and Moriarty grows bored, dropping the hand to the floor and kicking it under the table. "In your professional opinion," he asks the man with the knife, "Do you think he needs that elbow?"

The man shrugs. He's grinning.

"No!" yells Sherlock.

  
 _S: Stop this. I'll do whatever you want just stop this and let him go._

  
"Ooh, Sherlock's getting wound up," Moriarty says, presumably checking his phone. "Same old shit, Sherlock. Not listening. Cut off his elbow."

"You _bastard_!" Sherlock spits venomously, slamming his fist on the desk. The man with the knife takes hold of John's arm again, knife raised and _the feed switches off._

Sherlock stares in shock at the static, tapping the side of the computer, refreshing the page. Nothing.

"John?" His voice is tremulous. "John? No! What is happening!?"

He clutches at his head, gaping blankly at the static and it's _worse_ somehow, not knowing. He twinges, his head hurts. When he looks at his fingers they're smeared with blood, a trace amount from his blow to the side of his skull that was courtesy of Moriarty's bomb.

There's a bleep.

  
 _M: Sorry, sexy. Technical difficulties. Please stand by._

 _  
***_

 _  
_"What do you _mean_ we don't have any batteries?" screeches Moriarty, waving the now useless camera frantically.

John lies motionless on the table, deathly pale, eyes shut. Moran has stalked off to the side of the room to clean his weaponry, and Moriarty is in Armitage's face, murderous.

Armitage stands straighter and blinks slowly, mouth dry. "We did, but ... we must have left them somewhere. I can't find them."

"This is _ridiculous_ ," grouses Moriarty, dropping the camera onto one of benches on the side of the room, breath heavy. "I have never had to put up with such blatant ineptitude before."

"Sir-"

"Shut the _fuck_ up when I'm talking to you, Armitage," Moriarty screamed, hitting the bench with his skinny fist. "You have no excuses!"

"Sir, he's dying."

Moriarty wrinkles his nose and glances over at John, expression indifferent. "It looks that way, yes."

Armitage's hands were sweaty. "Are you going to let him die? Adrenaline may keep him awake, but it's not going to restore all the blood he's lost. And what about your game?"

Moriarty's eyes narrow. " _Don't_ try to manipulate me, sweetheart," he hisses, voice dangerous.

He steps forward and reaches to grip the top of Armitage's balaclava, pulls it off. Armitage stares, messy hair and red-faced, shabby next to Moriarty's cool disdain, and Moriarty eyes him up and down with a smirk. "I know you trained as a medic, many years ago," he says slyly. "I have supplies. Saline solution. Gauze and bandages. If needed."

"You want me to save him?"

Moriarty tsks, shaking his head. "No, _you_ want to save him. Do you think I'm stupid? You've been making moon eyes at the poor thing since we picked him up. You're not exactly subtle, my dear."

"It's not like that," Armitage protests, and Moran scoffs in the background.

"I'll give you the supplies if you do something for _me_ ," Moriarty offers.

"What?"

"It's a surprise," Moriarty says, grinning. "And it's the price."

Armitage has never completely trusted Moriarty, and he's definitely planning something. But this is his only chance to keep John alive, so he grabs at it. "I'll do it, then, sir."

"Good boy," coos Moriarty. He nods over to a dark green box that's stacked to the side of the room. "Everything you need is in there."

Armitage drags the box over to John, whose eyes slide open and glance up at him, clearly in shock. He's trembling, and his skin is sweaty and cool to the touch.

First things first.

John's forearm is completely shattered below the elbow. Armitage holds it up to reduce the blood flow, wrapping the area firmly in sterile gauze from the green box. Blood keeps soaking through each layer, staining his hands, but he continues, overlaying the gauze with a thick layer of bandage and pulling it tight. He rests the arm on John's stomach. It's not much elevation, but it's better than nothing.

He can see Moran's smirk from the corner of his eyes. Was this some sort of test?

He cleans John's cuts and bruises, disinfecting them and bandaging them as best he can. He has no idea how to treat John's mouth, so he just tissues off the drying blood and tries to make it easier for him to breath. His skin is soft under Armitage's fingers.

John's eyes are groggy. He's lost a lot of blood, but Armitage can't really put an estimate on it. He needs to make up the blood volume, so he pulls out an IV bag of Lactated Ringer's solution and carefully attaches the line and needle, running the solution through to remove air bubbles. Then he holds the bag up in the air with his teeth as he fiddles with the needle.

John doesn't even wince at Armitage's botched attempts; pain at that level doesn't seem to register anymore.

Armitage finally gets the needle in, and opens the port for the saline solution. John stares up at him, but Armitage can't look into his eyes.

Sometimes it feels like John can see right through him.

Moriarty walks over. Armitage doesn't turn around but he can hear the click of dress shoes on the floor, and then there's a little hand pressed tightly to his shoulder. A harsh squeeze.

"Happy now?" Moriarty asks with false sweetness. "Moran!" he says liltingly, raising his voice. "Go get some batteries."

Moran scowls. "We're in the middle of nowhere."

"Go. Get. Batteries," Moriarty orders. "And I'm sorry, but is it 'Annoy Jim' day today? Why are you fuckers so _intent_ on pissing me off?"

Moran rolls his eyes when Moriarty turns his back, and leaves.

"Poor Sherlock," murmurs Moriarty, tracing John's now clean lips with a white forefinger. "He must be going mad right now. What's it like, pet, being the only person that gets him this frustrated?"

John glowers weakly at him, and Moriarty pets his cheek.

"What a dear-heart you are."

Armitage goes to stand guard by the door, as Moriarty continues his one-sided display of affection with a man completely unable to fight him off. He can't help but feel that the only reason he was allowed to fix John, was so Moriarty could take him apart again, piece by unwilling piece.

  
***

  
After ten wasted minutes of pacing up and down in front of the computer, Sherlock has had enough. He sits down and navigates to his email, finding a new message from his brother.

  
 _Footage shows the car that picked up John Watson arrived in Cardiff two hours ago, without stopping at any of the usual rest stops._

 _However the car is now empty, and the driver has vanished._

 _Liaising with the police for more information. And don't worry, Sherlock, I can be subtle._

 _  
  
#file/drop/250511iy836.avi    
  
_

  
Sherlock narrows his eyes. He clicks back to the previous email and opens the attachment Mycroft sent last time. The computer stutters, then opens the file in the media player.

The footage is typical CCTV rubbish, with low resolution cameras casting a distracting grain over everything. Even so, Sherlock can see John's small form walk down the empty streets, apparently lost in thought. And although Sherlock knows what is going to happen, it's still a shock when a Ford Mondeo speeds down the road, skidding to a stop beside John who immediately snaps to attention, backing off.

Two men in balaclavas leap out, and it's over very quickly.

John makes a run for it, but they are faster and prepared. He's knocked out before he can get a hit in, and they bundle his unconscious body into an already stuffed boot. Sherlock can't see from this angle, but they have duct tape and rope and appear to be tying him up, presumably so that when he regains consciousness he doesn't cause a fuss. The boot is shut, the men jump back into the car, and they speed off.

Sherlock rewinds.

There is no way he can discern the identity of the individuals in the balaclavas. He recognises them immediately as the ones Moriarty has helping him, but that's it. Their movements confirm his earlier deduction, that they were military men trained to a high standard. John was a tactical fighter, but he'd been overwhelmed without struggle.

He rewinds again, pauses.

There's a man in the back seat of the car, dark hair and white skin. Moriarty. How very odd of him to get involved so early.

The driver sits at the front, but it's impossible to make out any features. A GPS glows in the front seat, but the footage is far too indistinct to even see what is on the screen.

He opens the new attachment, and sees the same car in Cardiff, being parked in a carpark. The driver leaves without paying for a ticket, collar pulled up high. It's obvious he won't be returning. The car is empty.

Sherlock takes note of the time and flicks back to the other attachment. There is a three and a half hour gap between the two images, from Marylebone to Cardiff. The first broadcast of John had been sent out an hour after he was kidnapped. Somewhere along the route, Moriarty, John and associates had emptied the car and left.

But where?

Sherlock plays the clip over and over, frustrated. There are no clues as to where they are headed in the footage, and the GPS is impossible to read.

The GPS.

It's a TomTom navigator, one of the newer models. And although Sherlock can't read the screen, that doesn't mean he can't find the route.

Sherlock downloads the TomTom maps onto the computer, and opens the program. He enters the address John was snatched from, and the address of the carpark found later, and clicks the shortest route. Apparently the journey should take three hours, but there is always the possibility of traffic messing things around. Either way, about an hour along this route should be the place where Moriarty has his hideout.

He knows the hideout has to be a factory or warehouse, and it has to have been abandoned for some time, or Moriarty would never have gotten everything in there without the owners noticing. A quick google search and some investigation, and Sherlock has an address of the location John was most likely being held.

Sherlock inhales, sits back, flexing his fingers.

Everybody makes mistakes, even Moriarty.

Sherlock gets into the system of the computer and types in commands to format the hard drive. Then as the computer shut itself down for good, he stands and paces, thinking.

It's obvious he can't go in on his own. It would be three against one, and Sherlock knows his weaknesses.

He has to call in a favour.

After leaving the hotel, he makes the call, and the phone is answered on the second ring.

"Mr Holmes, never thought I'd hear from you again."

"Hello Mr Musgrave. This isn't social. I'm calling to collect."

The man laughs. "I should have guessed. How can I help?"

"I need a hand in an extraction operation. Very discreet, can't discuss over the phone. Can you meet me at Camden station?"

"I'll be there in five."

Sherlock takes off in a run, and hails the next taxi he sees.

  
***

  
Moriarty pets John, traces his wounds with curious fingers, strokes his hair off of his forehead, analysing. John holds himself still under every touch, huffing as Moriarty brushes over his bandaged stump.

"That's right," Moriarty murmurs softly, eyes wicked. "How does it feel? I can alter your body as I see fit. I can shape you, make you useless, make you hurt for my entertainment. And you have been _very_ entertaining, pet."

John looks _exhausted_. He doesn't move as Moriarty cradles his head, cooing tenderly into his ear.

"Don't panic yourself, dear-heart, it'll all be over soon," he whispers. "He's going to come after you, and I'll let him. And I'll catch him. And I'll torture you in front of him. I'll cut off bits of you at a time, and I'll make you eat them. I'll burn off every hair on your body. I'll pull out your eyes with tweezers. I'll slice you down from forehead to arsehole and peel off your skin. And when you're dying, and mad, and bloody, and senseless, I'll let him kill you. I'll let him put you out of your _fucking_ misery for once and for all."

Talk of Sherlock always gets John on edge, and he tenses in Moriarty's arms.

"Armitage," orders Moriarty. "Come over here. It's time for your favour."

He looks up, and Armitage is standing there, shaking, gun pointed squarely at Moriarty's skull.

Moriarty doesn't let go of his hold on John. He grins, slowly, until all his white teeth are showing. He looks delighted, as if observing the results of a successful experiment.

"Now now, my dear," Moriarty says, black eyes fixed unnervingly on Armitage. "Think this through."

"I have," retorts Armitage, voice choked.

"Moran did warn me about this happening," Moriarty admits, tilting his head to the side. "He insisted you were untrustworthy. You'd be happy to know that I defended you. You wouldn't be so _ungrateful_ as to shoot the man who saved your life."

Armitage stuttered. "I am grateful, but … what we're doing is wrong. You can't _do_ this to people."

"You know why I had Moran leave?" Moriarty stands, walks closer. "This is another test, Armitage. I know you are obedient, but you falter when it comes to these sorts of things. I wanted to see how far you would go for me."

Armitage backs away, keeping the gun trained on Moriarty's forehead.

"What do you mean?"

Moriarty grins.

"It was a psychological experiment, sweetie. I wanted to see what would make you turn. Tell me ... what was the deal breaker? You quite happily smashed his little hands in with a claw hammer. You were fine holding his head still so I could cut out his tongue."

He pauses, eyes flicking over to John ( _who was breathing quickly, blue eyes darting between the gun and Moriarty_ ) and back again, mouth twisting as he thinks.

"Was it the amputation?" he muses, tapping his chin. "I suppose it _was_ rather grisly."

"I won't kill you," says Armitage. "Just … go. Go and don't come back."

"And leave you alone with your little crush lying half-naked on the table, helpless and grateful?" Moriarty says with a sly smile. "I _don't_ think so."

"It's not like that," Armitage protests. "And I would never do that."

Moriarty's expression darkens.

"Yes you would."

He slinks back over to John, slides a hand down his chest. "You can't lie to me, dear. I make my business in knowing people."

He glances back.

"And playing them off of each other, naturally."

"Don't touch him," Armitage says, as John twists under Moriarty's hands. Moriarty ignores this.

"I know exactly how far you would go, and I know for a fact that you're not above fucking people who can't exactly … refuse you."

"Past is past," hisses Armitage through gritted teeth. He knows he should end this and kill Moriarty now, but he can't quite bring himself to shoot.

"People don't change," Moriarty counters, and he shrugs his shoulders. "I know you through and through. I know you won't shoot me and I know that, even if you do leave now, you'll come back to me. Your type always does."

"I am done with this," Armitage says, taking aim, his finger pressing cautiously on the trigger. One squeeze and it would all be over, Moriarty's brilliant, mad brain splattered on the concrete wall.

There's a loud bang and the door to the basement flings open. Armitage reacts in shock, opening fire in the direction of the noise, but there's a powerful impact in the centre of his chest that drops him to his knees. He falls face-forward onto the concrete and the world around him blackens.

  
***

  
Sherlock bursts into the room after Musgrave and his two associates, startled at the gunfire.

 _They better not have -- oh thank god._

"Keep him alive," he barks at the man holding Moriarty, who had been knocked unconscious by a well-placed blow to the skull. The dangerous mind wasn't half as threatening when the body was lolling about so defencelessly.

He rushes to John, who is trying to say something through his split tongue, the words intelligible, face haggard with emotion, shock and relief and a thousand other things that Sherlock can't decipher. His eyes are wet but he's struggling to hold back the tears, and although he's in terrible pain, he stays silent.

" _John_ ," breathes Sherlock, reaching down and holding him close, careful not to press on any injuries. He inhales with his nose in John's hair, overcome for a moment, just thanking anything that's out there for the fact that John is here and alive and can be saved.

John is still cautious, tired as he is, he doesn't want Sherlock to worry. He hides his pain, trembling with the effort.

"It's okay," hushes Sherlock, cradling John's head. "You've been brave, John. It's okay to hurt now. There's an ambulance outside and it's going to take you to hospital, and everything will be fine, I _promise_."

John huffs a shuddering breath, and then he finally lets himself cry, burying his face into Sherlock's neck. They are tears of pain, frustration and relief, hot and salty on Sherlock's skin. Sherlock holds his broken body as he shakes with every pained breath, stroking the back of his neck, only moving away when the paramedics come in to whisk John off to a private hospital.

Sherlock leans in before John is taken away, hand pressed to his good shoulder.

"I'll be there when you wake up from surgery," he says. "I have things to sort out here."

John nods weakly, clearly on the verge of passing out, and Sherlock lets him be taken away.

Now it's just him, Musgrave, and two of Musgrave's fellow agents.

Sherlock mentally composes himself. He straightens his coat, and finally takes a good look around the room. He can see what the camera didn't let him see, the laptop on the desk that connected Moriarty to his private video hosts, the collection of torture devices that he never got around to using, a box of medical materials and drugs that presumably were used to put John together after each broadcast.

"Who's the man?" he asks Musgrave, who is kneeling over the corpse that Sherlock recognises as one of Moriarty's mercenaries.

"No identity," says Musgrave, standing up and shrugging. His gun, which took the killing shot, has already been holstered. "Nothing in any of his pockets apart from camera batteries."

Sherlock takes Moriarty's laptop. He needs to get to the hospital. "I need you to do a cleanup while I investigate this. There was another man like this one, so be on your guard. And keep Moriarty alive, I want to question him later."

Musgrave nods, and Sherlock leaves.

  
***

  
The hospital is private and well-maintained. It falls under the umbrella of Mycroft's considerable influence, and he sends his spies and operatives there when they are injured in the line of duty, and need a place to recover where bullet-wounds and the like aren't reported to the police. The staff are highly trained, and the facility is kept up-to-date with the latest technology.

John has been in surgery for five hours.

During that time, Sherlock had tried and failed to get anything out of Moriarty's laptop (the man was a computer genius) and had eventually given up and handed the thing over to Mycroft and his technicians.

"You should have informed me, Sherlock, in more detail, what was happening," Mycroft had admonished when Sherlock handed over the laptop. "Why did you insist on solving this without me? John could have died."

"This wasn't an issue with my ego," Sherlock snaps. "Moriarty had tabs on me. I didn't know who to trust. If I had gone running to you, he might have found out and killed John."

"Perhaps John would have preferred that," Mycroft says loftily, turning to go, but Sherlock is on him in a second and pushes him to the wall, livid.

"Don't say it," he hisses, teeth bared.

Mycroft grimaces in distaste and shoves Sherlock off. He straightens his suit, and brushes out the crumples. "He'll be in pain for the rest of his life, and he's lost his dominant hand."

"I will look after him," Sherlock retorts.

Mycroft scoffs. "You will grow bored _very_ quickly."

"I owe John," Sherlock says. "If it wasn't for me …"

"Does he know?" Mycroft asks, with a glint in his eye. "Does he know that you're the one who chose what would happen to him?"

"I believe so," Sherlock says. "Anyway, I'll tell him when he wakes up. I'll tell him everything."

John is small on the hospital bed. His broken hand is in a cast up to and over his elbow, and his stump has been bandaged, the skin over the wound having been sutured together. His various cuts and bruises have been treated, and the scalpel injury to his left shoulder has stitches.

( _freshly cut doctor_ )

John's eyes blink open, bleary under the influence of drugs.

Sherlock has always been able to track John's thoughts. He can see them play now across his face, the profound relief that he is no longer in that damned basement, the pain hitting him, causing him to wince, the momentary horror that is blanked out for Sherlock's benefit as he remembers his stump, which twitches against the blanket.

He smiles weakly at Sherlock, who desperately wants to touch him, hold him, reassure himself that John is okay, but he knows that is more than a little bit not good.

Sherlock settles for resting a hand on the soft skin above the cast. "I'm sorry," he whispers to John, who shakes his head.

They sit that way in silence until a doctor walks in to talk through recovery. He's smart and efficient, business-like, and doesn't talk down to them.

Sherlock can see he is also a former army surgeon, and has been married for five years with at least one small child, most likely a girl. He lets go of John's arm and sits back, intent on what is going to be said, but letting the man talk directly to John.

"There's good news and bad news," says the doctor, sitting on a chair next to the bed so John doesn't have to crane his neck to look at him. "The good news is that your tongue will heal completely, although you need to give it time. People have tongue-splitting surgeries all the time, a sort of body-modification, and one of the difficulties is stopping the two sides joining back together. Admittedly, the split in your tongue is rather messy, so there will likely be scarring, and your tongue will be less mobile and narrower than you are used to. This may affect your speech."

John nods, and Sherlock feels hope swelling in his chest.

"Your right hand is trickier. Every bone was fractured. We treated it with internal fixation, where we fix the bones use wires and pins so the bone callus can heal around it in the correct formation. Because most of the bones in your hand are broken, there is a lot of metal in you right now. You'll be in pain for a good while afterwards, as this sort of thing takes several months to heal. You'll never have the same level of control as before, but you will have a useable hand.

"Then there's your left arm. You're a healthy guy, you have good blood circulation, so there shouldn't be any trouble with tissues dying. Most people can cope perfectly well after amputation. There are prosthetics and the like, and have specialists here who can help you with therapies. I'll leave it to them to discuss this further with you."

When the doctor is out of the room, Sherlock turns back to John. The man is more awake now, and he is watching Sherlock closely, obviously curious but not sure what to ask.

"You want to hear how I found you," Sherlock says, and John nods.

Sherlock explains, how Moriarty emailed him, how he was forced to pick between torture methods, how he watched them all, because everything Moriarty saw of John, Sherlock had to see too.

He explains how Mycroft sent him the CCTV, and how he was able to use the make of the drivers GPS and the time taken to travel, and the little he had seen of the basement to work out where John had been taken.

"The men I was with, when I came to get you, they were friends of Musgrave. That man owes me. Years back, I helped him recover his hidden family fortune. He used to be the army, and he specialised in retrieving important prisoners of war, which is why I used him to get you out."

 _He's helping me question Moriarty_ , Sherlock didn't say.

He visits John every evening, between his investigation.

Moriarty's organisation is all but ruined. His right-hand man, Sebastian Moran, who Sherlock recognises as the missing mercenary who cut of John's hand, is still at large. But not for long, if Sherlock has his way.

He sits next to John on the hospital bed, and vows to stay with him, and help him recover.

"You will never be a burden," Sherlock promises. "I'll retire. I'll spend the rest of my life looking after you. And I won't do it begrudgingly, and I won't do it out of pity, I'll do it because you are the most important person in my life, and the kindest, bravest friend a man could have."

John's gaze softens, and he leans towards Sherlock, who gently kisses him on his wrinkled brow, and lets John rest his head on his shoulder. He runs his fingers though John's downy hair, and together they stare out of the window at the grey London sky.

"My family owns a cottage in Ditchling, in the Sussex Downs," Sherlock says after a while, and John glances up at him. "I used to spend summer holidays there when I was a child, exploring the village, visiting the farms, taking long walks in the nature reserve. I've often thought of it as the place I would return to, after all of _this_."

He waves his hand at what he could see of the city, and John lifts his head, questioning.

"I was wondering …" Sherlock stumbles over his words. "When you get out of hospital, I was wondering if you'd like to live there with me. It's very peaceful. And only an hours train ride from London, if you ever wanted to return for a visit. It's just - I think we need a break from London." He exhales slowly. "A very, very long break."

John smiles, his blue-grey eyes crinkling at the edges. He dips his head, nodding, and Sherlock slowly smiles back.

"Really?"

"Yes," John says hesitantly through his healing tongue, and moves forward, kissing Sherlock's temple before nestling into his shoulder again. They lie together until visiting hours are over, and then Sherlock excuses himself.

He strides past nurses and doctors and hospital orderlies, recognising those who are helping with John's recovery and returning their greetings. He exits the hospital and takes an expensive taxi ride west to Ealing. In the failing pink-grey light, Musgrave is waiting for him outside one of the warehouses, and the two shake hands. Their long shadows stretch over concrete, lone figures in streets of metal buildings.

"Mr Holmes."

"Mr Musgrave. How is he?"

"Not exactly good as new, but that's not really a problem in our case, isn't it?"

Musgrave has a ring of keys, which he uses to open an apparently unused warehouse, and takes Sherlock in.

A scrawny pale figure dressed in nothing but a hospital gown is strapped to a metal table in the middle of the open space, hands and feet bound by leather cuffs to each corner. The room is cold, and his breath spirals into clouds as he breathes, the movement of his lungs discernable through the flimsy fabric of the hospital gown. He jerks as Sherlock and Musgrave come in, staring wildly with huge black eyes.

Sherlock pulls off his coat ( _don't want it to get ruined_ ) and covers up with a lab coat, snapping on latex gloves. He walks over to Moriarty and grips at his hair, pulling his head back and leaning in until they're pressed forehead to forehead, ice pale eyes glaring directly into beetle-black.

"Remember what I said?" Sherlock hissed. "Everything you did to John, I'll do to you. Except I have the knowledge and skills to make it last longer, to make it _hurt_ so much more. I'm going to keep you alive for days, Jim, and I guarantee you'll be wishing I'll just let you die by the end of it."

Moriarty grins widely. He can't speak after Sherlock had burnt his tongue into nothing with concentrated HCl, after extracting every last bit of useful information out of him.

This isn't the investigation. This is revenge.

Musgrave gets the camera working, and he nods at Sherlock. They're live.

"Hello, Moran," Sherlock drawls, fingers still tightly laced into Moriarty's dark hair. "We're going to play a game."

 _  
END   
_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover- Multiples](https://archiveofourown.org/works/330965) by [blanketforyourshock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketforyourshock/pseuds/blanketforyourshock)




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